Monday, November 23, 2009

I drive past four car accidentsin half an hour. Blue, red, yellowlight tumbles through my carwith the trajectory of a soaringsoccer ball. I drive slowly, I do,the car's gait laced with cautionand avoidance. At arm's lengthfrom the disaster, this is whereI try to hold myself, uprightand singing along with voicespropelling from the spinning discin the dash. Onward without plan,I assign the memory part of my brainto get me home, to reel me inone car length at a time.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

(Under, beneath,in binding and on page.In the bandage ofthe binding, the gluein the shredded canvas.Meaning wells upand finds hidden channelsto course through.And all of this under,the being of the bookwhen it is closed.)

Friday, November 6, 2009

Candy-coloured building blocks drop from the sky.I am the builder. It’s my job to pull them intoEven lines, not to stop their falling, butTo ease them into waiting spaces. There’s music, too,To contend with. It sets a pace, or maybe I do.The blocks flutter down like confetti, Rubik’s cube shrapnel,So I breathe and gather myself. There’s work to be done here.